Andrew Vachss - Pain Management

“Hi, cutie,” she said to Big A, giving him a little kiss on the cheek. The kid’s face flamed from the effort of trying to be cool about it.

“Hey, Ann,” Clipper greeted her.

“Making any money?” she asked him.

“A little bit.”

She shot a hip, turned to look at me over her shoulder. “We have to talk,” she said.

“Talk’s fine,” I told her. “But I don’t hold press conferences.”

“Then let’s go,” she said, taking my arm.

“Your car,” she told me, as soon as we hit the sidewalk.

I pushed the button on the key fob to unlock the Cadillac. I could have charged admission to watch her climb into the front seat.

“What’s this all about?” I asked her.

“Not here.”

“I’m not talking about whatever you’ve got to tell me. I mean the whole display.”

“Display?” She half-smiled, taking a breath deep enough to make the tank-top fabric scream for mercy.

“Not . . . you. That’s factory stock. I mean making sure everybody in that joint knows we’ve got something going.”

“Oh. That was for protection.”

“Mine or yours?”

“Both. Turn left up ahead.”

I followed her directions for a few minutes without saying another word. Parked where she told me to.

“Come on,” she said, getting out of the car.

I followed her up a driveway next to a three-story stone building. She unlocked a side door and climbed the stairs. The skirt climbed her bottom. She didn’t have to tell me to follow her.

At the top of the last landing, she produced a key and opened a plain dirty-beige door with no nameplate.

“This isn’t mine,” she said, stepping inside.

It didn’t look like anybody’s. Generic hotel furniture, even down to the Muzak-in-oil painting on the wall.

“Sit,” she said.

I took the seasick-green armchair. She pulled off the blond wig, shook out her own short auburn hair, pulled the tank top over her head, and tossed it on the mustard-yellow couch. Then she yanked the skirt up to her waist and fiddled with it for a second, and it came free in her hands. When she put one foot on a straight chair to pull off her shoe and the anklet, I could see she was wearing a simple black thong. Finished with her footwear, she walked over to a closet and starting rummaging around.

What looked like a couple of cafeteria tables were against the far wall, covered in stacks of paper. I took a casual look: The Lancet, Scientific American, the Washington Post Health . . .

Ann came out of the closet with an armful of clothing. Without a word, she fitted herself into a black sports bra with straps that crossed over the back, then pulled on a baggy pair of white shorts and a white T-shirt. Barefoot, she came over to where I was sitting and perched herself on the end of the couch.

“That’s better,” she said.

“Speak for yourself,” I told her.

“Ah, you’re a silver-tongued devil, aren’t you?” she said, smiling.

“That’s me. All the moves.”

“Listen,” she said, dropping her voice. “Things have changed.”

“You know where she is?” I asked, stepping on what looked to be a long story.

“No.”

“You got any solid leads?”

“No.”

“You got anything new since the last time we talked?”

“No.”

“Okay. Look, you’re a girl who likes her games, I guess. And that’s fine. For that, you bring enough to the table, no question. But for what I need, no. I thought about it. But you know what? I don’t trade promises for performance. I appreciate what you did at the bookstore, but we can’t do a deal, you and me.”

“Don’t be so sure, B.B. You think I brought you here just so I could tell you I don’t have anything new?”

“No. I guess I—”

“—thought I was going to sex you into signing on? Grow up. A man who’ll steal for pussy will talk for it, too. If I’d scanned you as anything but a professional, I wouldn’t ever have talked to you.”

“All right. You tell me, then.”

“What I said before . . . about protection? I think you and me, we’re going to have to team up. And it would help you if people in the street think we’re together.”

“You don’t have anything to—”

“Yeah. I do. You’ve spent some time, thrown around some money—even impressed a few people. But you’re not plugged in.”

“And you are. And so what? You’re no closer to her than—”

“Not to the girl, no. But closer to the truth. And here it is, Mr. Hazard. You’re not the only one hunting her.”

I never try to Teflon a threat off my expression. Instead, I turn it into smoke, make my face a lattice, let it pass right through me. So I didn’t flat-eye her, or stay expressionless. I raised my eyebrows slightly and twisted my mouth just enough to show what I thought of street rumors.

“Two men,” she said, watching me closely. “White. Late thirties, early forties. Short hair, government suits. And they’re offering something better than what you put out there.”

“Which is?”

“Get Out Of Jail Free cards.”

“They’re promising . . . what? Immunity? A break on sentencing? A stay-away off some operation that’s running?”

“They’re saying they can ‘take care’ of things. Not being specific. But they’re making the rounds.”

“You know this exactly . . . how?”

“One of the people they talked to is someone . . . someone it’s important to me to keep tabs on.”

“This is getting more complicated with the telling.”

“No. No, it isn’t. Don’t bother baiting me; I’m already telling you what I know. The man, the name he goes by is Kruger.”

“Kruger? Is that supposed to be German?”

“It’s short for Krugerrand. He’s a pimp. Word is, he got the name a long time ago, when he put all his money into gold, got rich when inflation hit.”

“Doesn’t sound like any pimp I ever heard of.”

“He’s smarter than most, I’ll give him that. But the story may be all nonsense. Stuff gets distorted on the street, you know that.”

“Yeah. Stuff like two white men—”

“These two men, they went to see Kruger, that much I know for sure.”

“How?”

“There’s a nightclub where he hangs out. He likes to do business with his ladies draped around him.”

“And one of them talks to you?”

“More than one. And he knows it.”

“Is that a problem for you?”

“He’s a pimp,” she said, as if that explained everything. “To a pimp, it’s all game. Everything anybody does; ever. All game. He knows what I do—what people say I do, anyway—but he’s not buying it. He thinks I’m all about something else.”

“What?”

“He thinks I’m trying to pull his girls. And not just his. The way he has it scoped, I’m a dyke with a plan.”

“You wouldn’t be the first—”

“Lesbian pimp? Of course not. Some dominas make their subs . . . Ah, never mind. Kruger’s not the only one who thinks that’s my play. But he’s the only one with enough power to be a problem.”

“Anyone with money could be a—”

“Sure,” she said, cutting me off. “I’m not talking about money. Kruger’s connected.”

“How high?”

“I don’t know. Nobody does. But,” she said, holding up her hand like a traffic cop to stop whatever she thought I was going to say, “it’s not just street talk. For sure, he’s got an in with the blue boys.”

“So anybody putting pressure on him would be—”

“Yes. That’s about the size of it.”

I leaned back in the chair. Closed my eyes, trying to see it. Ann moved closer. Soundlessly, but I could feel the air displace next to me. And smell her sugarcane perfume.